


Google

by sleepypunks (orphan_account)



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-14
Updated: 2014-07-14
Packaged: 2018-02-08 20:56:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1955868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/sleepypunks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Google has always been there for Jean.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Google

**how to tell if youre in love or not**

Jean sat at his computer, 14 years old, itching the back of his neck nervously. The room was dark, as he'd decided that night fall would be the only safe time to do this for some reason (probably dramatic effect, if he was being truthful to himself), and the white glow of his dusty computer screen illuminated his already pale face.

He couldn't believe he was doing this, and his stomach clenched and churned with anxiety as he waited impatiently for the search results to load.

Finally (it had actually only been a few seconds, but it felt like an eternity to Jean, with the way his pulse was fluttering in anticipation), links to quizzes and magazine articles filled the page, each one advertising titles such as "Are You Just Simply Infatuated?" or "Does He Really Love You Back?" He scanned the links with his eyes, before carefully clicking on one that seemed promising enough.

Turns out, that article had simply been a bunch of gibberish on chemicals and stupid things like that, so he decided to choose another, and then another, and another, until the tiny clock on the corner of the computer screen read "2:39 A.M" and Jean Kirstein was diagnosed to be completely, 100% in love with his best friend.

...

**how to ask someone out**

He pulled his legs up onto his computer chair, tucking them in and sitting cross legged, fully aware that in a few mere minutes his lower limbs would most likely be numb and useless. He waited silently for results, and scrolled down to find the most promising link once they appeared.

He read what felt like hundreds of articles and blog entries, each spouting some nonsense about "Being Yourself" and "What's The Worst That Could Happen?"

He snorted quietly through his nose, bitterly amused with that advice.

Be himself? Yeah, right, if he were to be himself he'd end up accidentally humilating Marco and most likely purposely punching a tree or something. He'd say something unintentionally awful or snarky and sarcastic and he'd have to see the hurt ebb onto Marco's gentle face as he tried to take it back, tell him he didn't mean it and that he actually really liked him, he just didn't ever know what to say, and ohmygodpleasedon'tgoI'msorry.

The worst that could happen? He thought of so many bad things that he was unsure which of them was the worst. Disgust. Anger. Pity. He couldn't handle any of that from Marco, and he exited out of the tab, shutting down his computer and dejectedly throwing himself onto his cramped twin bed, hoping his mother wouldn't hear him scream into his pillow.

...

**how to dress for a casual date**

Three months later, he was frantically typing into the Google search bar, praying for something helpful, fast. His hair was neatly combed back and he was fairly sure his face looked okay, but he was adorned in sweatpants and old ass T-shirt with, of all things, the Forever Alone meme on the front. His 32 year old cousin had bought it for his last birthday, and he felt too guilty to throw it out, so he ocasionally wore a shirt with a meme on it to bed. No one had to know.

But he had twenty minutes to rid himself of memes and ugly sweatpants, brush his teeth, and meet Marco at a local ice cream shop, and he was freaking out. What was he supposed to wear? Something normal, as if they were just hanging out? Something nicer than usual? Was his hair too much? 

He touched his blond hair gently for a moment, refusing to think that it might have made him look stupid. He convinced himself that if there was anything good about his appearance, it was absolutely his hair.

Eventually, he settled on a red, plaid button up and a pair of dark jeans. He looked in his mirror, not quite satisified, and gave a loud sigh before carefully ruffling his hair out of it's stiff position, unable to further reassure himself that it looked good. He took his black beanie off of his desk dejectedly and rolled up his sleeves, as he'd in the search results seen that girls (and probably gay dudes) liked that. He checked himself out in the mirror one more time, deciding that his outfit would have to do, and quickly glanced at the clock on his computer before his eyes widened comically.

"Shit, shit, shit," he mumbled, shoving his wallet into his pocket and flying out the door with the knowledge that he only had five minutes to meet Marco before he was late.

...

**how to hide a hickey**

A few hours later, Jean was completely thrilled with the fact that Marco seemed to greatly appreciate his choice of apparel, judging from the sizable bruise that was currently blooming on his neck, matching the warmth in his chest by the way they both seemed to deepen as the minutes wore on.

This time, as he waited for answers from the Internet, he wore a smirk and a slight blush as he reflected on the day's activities, aching to text Marco and satisfied that he'd gotten what he had wanted for so long.

...

**how to know if someone loves you back**

He desperately wanted the feeling to be mutual, the feeling of elation when he saw a hint of freckles through a crowd, the feeling of warmth when a gentle hand was wrapped around his, the feeling of disbelief that anyone could possibly be this perfect.

He took numerous quizzes, read an insane amount of girly blog posts, and scratched his neck in confusion multiple times as he examined the search results.

Eventually, he came up empty handed, still unsure if Marco Bodt was as serious about their relationship as he was, and was unable to sleep until the early hours of the morning.

...

**how to say 'i love you'**

Apparently, there were several ways to utter those 3 words.

Jean, of course, couldn't decide on the best one.

Whisper it against his neck, scream it in the middle of sex (which he thought was an awful idea), write it on notecard on a boquet of flowers, mutter it right after a good night kiss?

There were so many, and he was determined to make it perfect, to ensure that Marco would detect his sincerity and return his affections.

...

**how to pick out flowers for a funeral**

Jean prayed that the broken sense of numbness would last, that it wouldn't come crashing down and shatter him. He knew that the pain was sort of inevitable, but he planned to at least delay it with anything he could, be it alcohol or sleep.

If he could manage to sleep with out night mares, that is.

He'd only cried once in the past week, since the accident had happened. He'd screamed and sobbed and whimpered, demanding that his mom not touch him, broken gasps of the boys name exiting his lips as he felt like his own chest was being crushed. He vowed that he wouldn't cry like that again, not ever. 

He eventually just went with daisies, since he knew they were Marco's favorite. Anything else would feel too dry and meaningless, too researched.

...

**how many people die from drunk drivers a year**

Immediately after the funeral, as he drove home, he'd slipped in some stupid mix tape he'd made for Marco a year ago. At the time that he'd made it, it'd seemed like a great idea, but he was quick to realize that only people in movies and books made mixtapes, and that he was an idiot.

Despite the ridiculousness of the tape, tears were coating his cheeks in seconds, bright beams of sunlight causing them to sparkle in the most unfitting way.

He was almost afraid that he wouldn't be able to make it home safely with his eyes blurring like they were, but he did, crashing through the door and racing up the stairs to curl up on his bed, where he cried until he couldn't anymore.

...

**how to forget about someone**

Jean found himself thinking about the cluster of freckles near the bottom of Marco's rib cage during class. He got reprimanded by the teacher for not paying attention, and he listlessly straightened his back, returning to his notes and receiving pitiful glances from his friends. That was the only way they look at him recently, eyes full of pity and empathy.

...

**how to get rid of nightmares**

He often woke up to the sounds of his own gasps, mixed with gagging induced by the graphic images his own mind had created in his dream. He was always exhausted, but to afraid to return to sleep, because the dream might make a reappearance if he did.

...

**how to move on**

It'd been six months, and everybody told him that he was sort of being ridiculous. That it was okay to be sad, but it was less okay to become a black hole, sucking everyone else's moods down with yours. He understood, and agreed, and smiled at them, informing them that he'd do his best to become better. As soon as they left, his expression drooped, face becoming as weary as it always was.

He wanted to move on.

...

Google had always been there for Jean, when he needed help on how to secretly wash sheets, when he needed information for a report, when he needed to know what to buy his mom for her birthday. He quickly discovered that search engines weren't particularly helpful in the way of keeping his rib cage collapsing onto itself.

**oh god i miss him so much please**

**i cant sleep**

**i cant breathe**

**Author's Note:**

> i dont own google  
> shameless self promoting: nlnetails.tumblr.com


End file.
